Gig review: KARNIVOOL, Jurojin & A Torn Mind @ King Tut's, 18/12/2010

You won't believe it, but it's a gig review! What this blog was originally intended for! My modus operandi since I last attended a live music event has undergone something of a polar shift, so please bear with me whilst I attempt to describe guitar sounds and drummers and things using words that aren't ‘ice’ or ‘hockey’ or anything similarly irrelevant! Right, on with the music.

Three bands of a progressive persuasion were taking to the King Tut’s Wah Wah Hut stage on a positively arctic Saturday in the excellent Scottish city of Glasgow. First on were the local support act, A Torn Mind. I hadn’t known what to make of them on my initial pre-gig listening session but the cobwebs were well and truly blown away as they kicked off their short but sweet set, the sound quality in King Tut’s kicking seven shades of excrement out of the obviously sub-par Myspace versions of their songs and forcing me to reassess my preconceptions of underwhelmed-ness. The Glaswegian four-piece were shamelessly prog, but revelled in the fact, show-casing a torrid love affair with their delay pedal and a hippy keyboard and rhythm guitar player whose dancing skills made me feel like a member of Diversity. Entertaining and unselfconscious, with a few catchy hooks – I feel these guys have a bright future ahead of them.

Direct support on the tour was provided by Jurojin, who sounded painfully southern in comparison to the gargling Scottish tones of the previous band, but lessened the sore thumb effect of my own cockney-ness a bit, which was nice. They were a bit of a conundrum, musically. In comparison to A Torn Mind they were almost contrived in their alternative-ness, featuring amongst other oddities, a tabla-player. They skated the fine line between potential genius and pretention for a few numbers before the singer uttered a line I’ve never heard before at a gig and will probably never hear again: ‘We’re going to do a 19th Century folk song now’. When a prog metal band says words like these, it more often than not spells danger. They weren’t so much skating the line now as perching on the diving board threatening to plummet into arty-farty oblivion. But then the song started. And it was brilliant. The singer pulled off the folk vocal perfectly and the version of ‘Black Leg Miner’ they performed was outstanding, chunky and metal and well, just excellent. They then proceeded to annihilate my earlier skepticism with a brilliant end to their set. I couldn’t fail to be impressed by them, heavily Tool-influenced as they were, particularly the drummer, Francesco, who was so technically proficient he threatened to eclipse the remainder of the band, and the tabla-player who added to the ridiculously high standard of the percussive end of the band. The vocals? Generally a little too clean for my liking but still. A marmite band? Almost certainly. Ones to watch – definitely.

By the time Karnivool took to the stage it was past 10:30 and I had my dancing legs on (read: I’d had about 6 pints and a couple of gins and was feeling merry). What can I say about them, other than ‘wow’. The Australian quintet couldn’t really go wrong as far as their setlist went, being as they have only released two studio albums, both of which I love, but somehow, they managed to make it so perfect, it wouldn’t have been better if I’d written it myself and had them wrap a chocolate bow around it. Kicking off with tracks from this year’s brilliant ‘Sound Awake’ record, the band’s sound was tight and crisp and soaring, true to the quality of the record but exceeded not only by their performance but by the sheer flawlessness of singer Ian Kenny’s vocals, particularly on stand-out track ‘New Day’. The guy was all kinds of cool, somehow managing to pull off chilled Aussie with not a single reference to the Ashes, and with the zen-like contentment of an inebriated Buddhist. My gigging companion likened him to a ‘stoned velociraptor’, a bizarre simile that somehow fit him down to the ground. The crowd reflected the happiness with a lot of singing, dancing and general expressions of enjoyment. Although, at 11:30 on a Saturday night in Glasgow, I can’t help but feel that a lot of their work had already been done for them.

The extent of my gig photography. Skilled I might well be, but you wouldn't know it. This is basically pretty much how I saw the gig, to be honest.

And so a good night was had by all, and Karnivool firmly placed themselves in my top gigs of the year list, sneaking on in there right at the end. I am a big fan, and I hope they come back sooner rather than later. Australia's not that far, right?

They tried to make me go to rehab...

(cross-posted from http://confessionsofahockeynovice.blogspot.com/)

When it dawned on me after the Dundee match that I would not be witnessing another live hockey match until after Christmas, I can’t deny that the panic started to set in. Exactly 20 days without hockey. Short of filling the intervening days with a series of bizarre and increasingly unhinged blog posts, I wasn’t sure quite how I would cope with the lack of hockey in my life. It was then I realised, what I think I had known already for a while but had been too afraid to admit to myself. But I’m ready to admit it to you now, in the hope that you can help me through what is inevitably going to be a difficult time in my life. Here goes.

My name is Katy, and I’m a hockey addict.

I’ve been watching hockey for just over two months, now. It started out small. Just one match, here and there, just a click or two on the Vipers website. A little dabbling in the NHL. A quick skim of the rules on the internet.

But then it got worse. I started thinking about hockey all the time. Even when I wasn’t at hockey, I wished I was. I met other people who liked hockey and that didn’t help, they just made me want more hockey. I watched hockey videos on the internet, at all hours of the day. I even watched hockey highlights first thing in the morning. When I couldn’t get hold of any hockey, I became nervous, unresponsive and difficult to be around. My motivation for anything other than hockey disappeared. I found myself unable to hold a sensible conversation that didn’t revolve around hockey. Mood swings? Check. I would go from being on the crest of a wave to anger and despair at the drop of a hat (or a puck). And my behaviour when deprived of my regular fix became increasingly unpredictable.

Take this Saturday just gone as an example. I was in exile, marooned in the south-east of England, hundreds of miles away from my beloved Vipers and about to miss the home match against Braehead Clan. With an aging laptop my only connection to the action, I felt fragile and out of place. I donned my ‘lucky’ jersey in the hope that, despite my absence, the good fortune which had been associated with it up to that point would continue.

And so I prepared to attempt to appease my craving with a less-than-potent combination of the EIHL live scores page, and the Vipers Hockey Facebook page, hoping that a commentary feed would be forthcoming. But like sticking an Elastoplast on an arterial bleed, it wasn’t really a suitable substitute. The withdrawal symptoms were kicking in. I DIDN’T have the shakes (because I was in a warm house rather than freezing my butt off at Whitley Bay Ice Rink). It felt all wrong. I was jittery. Just knowing that there was hockey going on, albeit 300-odd miles away, was satisfying my pining heart ever so slightly, but following a game through a live scores page... I can’t adequately describe how immensely frustrating it can be. Perhaps you’ve tried it before, perhaps not. In a way, it would be much healthier to just stay away from the laptop until well after the game is over and hence, there can be no doubt about the result. Ignorance is bliss and all that. There’s just something irrational and narcissistic about following the game live, as if little old you maybe, just maybe, might make a difference, if you want it hard enough. If you’ve not experienced the joys, it goes a little something like this:

Load page. Game has been going 2 minutes already. I can’t believe I let this happen. What if – oh poo. We’re losing already. That’s because I hadn’t loaded the page up yet. Inevitable feeling of guilt tinged with failure. I am a bad human being.

It’s funny how as sports fans, distance from the object of our affections is inversely proportional to the number of crazy superstitions we suddenly find solace in. It’s ironic that when we are in the position to offer the least support to our club (ie NOT in a live setting), we adopt the most bizarre paranoid behaviours in the deluded belief we might actually be helping in some way. Observe:

Click. We were two goals down. Nooooo! (I found this out on the Facebook page. Therefore this was deemed to be bad luck).

Let’s try the Elite League page instead. Click. We had pulled one back. YESSSS!! (This therefore instantly became good luck).

I know I’m not alone in holding these ridiculous superstitions, but perhaps I’m the first one ever to actually admit it in written form. Someone should probably put me in an over-sized petri dish and study me. I wondered if perhaps my lucky jersey was only lucky when it was physically AT Whitley Bay ice rink, with me in it. So I considered taking it off. I even briefly considered taking one arm out. Or wearing it back to front. But then decided I couldn’t make that kind of possibly game-altering decision without some other sign. The third period began.

Click. 2-2. The jersey stayed on.

Refresh. Watching through one eye, half-closed. No change! And as has become painfully clear, no news is good news as far as the Vipers are concerned. Oh wait... The timer hasn’t actually moved on since I last checked. The damn thing’s stuck.

Click. Oh here we go, the timer’s moved... We’ve conceded two more goals. Swearwords.

Two minutes later. Click. Braehead 30 – 12 Vipers?! Jesus H! What kind of monumental – oh wait, that’s just the shots on goal. It’s still only 4-2. Thank the lord.

Cuddles. Because hockey players need love too. And because. Well, it's just nice, okay? Leave me alone!

We’ve not yet won a match when I’ve been following on live scores. So I’m pretending not to watch. Trying to fool it. Using the score card I try and recreate the action in my mind, to get a feel for the game, the penalties for example – number, offence, culprit (not many – everyone must be behaving themselves). And the shots on; they had a lot more than us, does that mean we’re backs-to-the-wall again? Charlie playing another blinder? I even had a little knuckle-chew to try and recreate those game-night nerves. I found myself idly wondering whether Mike Prpich’s beard had put in an appearance. I worried for a bit that my level of interest in the aforementioned face fuzz might have reached the point of obsession. I’m sure people have had harassment suits taken out against them for less. If only he’d just let me near enough with my ruler to make an accurate measurement... Restraining order for one, please!

And so I am forced to reflect on my dirty little habit, and all its fanciful nuances. I imagine the questions I might be asked, if I went for help. Do I want to quit hockey? Nope. Maybe cut down, just a little? Not really, thank you. I just need to learn to live with my addiction. And to learn that others around me are capable of enjoying the finer things in life in moderation, even if I am not. And to find humour in the fact that I am going cold turkey, at Christmas. So who out there can help me in my time of need? And by help, what I probably mean is, indulge me, or at least make me feel like I’m not alone. Because yes, I am a hockey addict; but I wouldn’t have it any other way.

ATP World Tour Finals - Tuesday 23rd November

If it was hard for me to coherently pull together a football match report following repeated exposure to ice hockey of late, how the hell am I going to cope with a tennis report? At least football is a team game, and it’s played outdoors, which is almost as cold as an ice rink. And people are rowdy. For my live tennis experience and subsequent ramblings, I would have to reign in my inner hooligan and re-discover how to applaud politely and NOT encourage opponents to beat each other senseless. This could be interesting.

My first experience of the former Millennium Dome, the now O2 Arena played host all last week to the ATP World Tour Finals, the end of year tennis Championships which sees the top 8 men in the singles rankings and the top 8 mens’ doubles pairings gathering to do battle for the final points of the year. Each session featured one singles and one doubles match, and I would be attending both sessions of Tuesday’s action. We had elected to go for the cheap seats for the early session, and I now see why the seats in the upper tier of the O2 have been described as the ‘nosebleed seats’ – I can honestly say that never before have I experienced such a vertiginous seating experience; I was already feeling nauseous as we ascended the numerous escalators to the high point of the Dome, and this was before climbing the equivalent of 3 or 4 flights of stairs to finally reach our seats in the gods. Nevertheless, it gave an almost bird’s eye view of the action. The place is seriously impressive, and the build-up to the matches lent a real air of excitement.

View of the O2 Arena from the 'nosebleed' seats. Nice.

First up were 4th ranked doubles pairing Lukas Dlouhy and Leander Paes against the wildcard entrants and Wimbledon champions, singles specialist Jurgen Melzer and his partner, the German Phillip Petzschner. It started out slowly but picked up tempo, some blistering power from the Austro-German combo battling against the doubles specialists from the Czech Republic and India. Power and precision eventually won out though, the double-fault and error-strewn performance of Dlouhy/Paes being exposed and punished, despite some flashes of brilliance, particularly from Leander Paes.

The feature match of the afternoon saw the mighty Roger Federer take on our very own Andy Murray (that’s the first and last time I’ll ever claim ownership of Murray! *Shudder*). I was surprised that the support for the two was pretty equal, unlike at Wimbledon where Murray-mania totally takes over and people lose their heads in an annual show of unwarranted patriotism. I would venture to suggest it’s because the British media don’t give a crap about the year-end championships and as a result, no-one has really had a chance to get their panties in a bunch over it. Either that or they’ve all realised what a dour old pain in the arse Murray is. It’s the first and last time I’ll ever shout ‘come on Roger’ that’s for sure. And Roger did indeed come on. It has to be said, that whether or not you are a fan of the man, seeing that whipping forehand in person is really something. It's a force to be reckoned with. And he proceeded to paste Murray all over the court with it. The Scot didn’t really turn up, I’m not sure where he was, perhaps he lost his mojo when he had about 8 inches of excess curls lopped from his strangely shaped noggin, but whatever was going on, he never really got going and Federer cruised to a straight sets victory, 6-4 6-2. Good work from the Swiss who seemed similarly surprised when asked in his post-match interview about Murray’s lack of game. Perhaps he was put off by the sight of footballing legend Maradona, who was in attendance, alarmed by the prospect of him plucking the ball from mid-air in an ‘innocent’ mid-rally incident to give Federer another break of serve. Or perhaps he just had another attack of indifference, an affliction which seems to strike Murray on occasion. Who can say.

Murray v Federer. Spot the ball! Oh, it's in Diego's hand.

We descended back into the lower troposphere for the evening session which was nice, and a cider or three helped me to recover from the altitude sickness. Had a wander around the perimeter of the arena and caught a certain Rafael Nadal on the practice courts, understandably attracting a large crowd despite looking as though he had been happier in his life. Not sure what was bothering him, but Uncle Toni was on hand to advise. My first time seeing my favourite player in the flesh, it was a thrill just to see him hitting, and I thought he looked fantastic; skinnier than I had expected – he’s not carrying an ounce of excess weight OR muscle – honed to perfection – he’s a lean, mean ball-hitting machine! Wide-eyed and fawning, me? Never.

Rafael Nadal: Wearing colours that most human beings can't look at directly since 2002.

The first match of the evening session featured the number one ranked doubles team of the year, the USA’s Bryan Brothers, against the Polish pairing of Fyrstenberg and Matkowski. It was expected to be routine for the Americans; they have been the mens’ doubles equivalent of Chelsea this year, winning everything in sight and schooling their competitors on a weekly basis. Quite why they are so good can really only be attributed to one thing (well apart from their superior skill, fitness, training and those minor details!). It’s all about the twin factor. You know, that thing where twins can feel each other’s pain, and know instinctively when the other one’s in danger. And of course, which way they’re going to serve. Nope, apparently not that last one. One of the twins (please don’t ask me which one, I can barely tell when I’m looking at a picture of them close-up, let alone the backs of their heads from a distance) actually managed to serve the ball directly into the back of his brother’s head. I kid you not. It was hilarious and touching in equal part, as the culprit twin ran over to the victim twin to check he was okay, and they had a little embrace. Aw. Also, I almost forgot to mention, that they actually went to the toilet together. Now THAT is brotherly love. Possibly gone a little too far.

The whole serving-into-the-head incident must have really thrown them off their game though as lanky pole and chubby pole (sorry, but it's easier to type than their actual names) took the second set to take the match to a tie-break, which they dominated and did the unthinkable – they beat the Bryan Brothers. Good work Pole-type dudes. Better luck next time Bryan 1 & 2. Trying not to knock each other out would be a good start.

Hey Mike/Bob! (delete as appropriate). Watch your head - Mike/Bob (delete as appropriate) is serving!

The evening session concluded with the Swedish world number 5 Robin Soderling taking on clay-court specialist David Ferrer from Spain. It was an exciting and tense match, Ferrer the pint-sized powerhouse not making things easy for Soderling, despite the blistering pace of his serve and his hard-hitting forehand. Ferrer had the majority of the crowd, who were fairly subdued despite the excellent quality of the tennis on offer, and the presence of one John Cleese, the back of who’s head I could see just a few metres in front of me (I really had to bite my tongue not to shout 'Basiiiil!' in one of the quiet moments - thankfully I managed to restrain myself). He’s an unerring work-horse (Ferrer that is, although I'm sure John Cleese is quite conscientious too!), and what he lacks in stature he more than makes up for in sheer effort levels. He regularly leaves the ground when applying his racket to his driving forehand and in addition to this he also appears to be a thoroughly pleasant chap, humble and under-stated. Soderling had to fight hard to clinch the first set on the tie-break, before eventually overcoming Ferrer’s challenge in the second set, the Swede’s intensity and power overwhelming the Spaniard as he went on to claim a straight sets victory.

Verdict on the day as a whole: excellent. Very well-organised, impressive venue, some great competition, and a good selection of food and drink (shame about the prices though!). Next year I will be back, and I’ll be buying tickets for two days’ play to make sure I get to see everyone. And yes, that does mean Rafa. Right, back to hockey! This tennis malarkey is turning me into a southern softie again. Bye bye, old blog!

On the birth of a baby blog...

The time has come to unmerge the component parts of my blog! I thought the moment might come eventually when I would need to divorce my incoherent music ramblings from my equally incoherent sporting drivel but if you had told me a year ago it would be because of ice hockey I would have laughed in your face. IN YOUR FACE, I tell you! But that’s what has happened. My day-seizing was successful; My Pet Steed Tangent dun a baby. It’s called ‘Confessions of a Hockey Novice’ and will be launched via the Newcastle Vipers website as of this week, well, that’s the plan, anyway! Here is the link – please check it out, I would appreciate all the support I can get as I am dipping my toe into the churning waters of a sport which I know little about, but love with a passion already – I hope it will amuse both hockey and non-hockey fans alike and bring in lots of new Vipers fans who can like me revel in the glory of ice hockey without necessarily knowing what the blithering hell is going on.

http://confessionsofahockeynovice.blogspot.com/

So that’s it! Being as ice hockey is the vessel into which all my creative juices are flowing currently, it may be a little quiet around here for a bit. I might come along sporadically, like today, to splurge some general juicy overflow in the direction of this here blog. Or maybe to rant about football again, or even to review a gig, when I eventually go to another one. Fear not dear readers! Words shall spill forth from my fingertips onto this here screen once more. Well, more than once, obviously. But for now I’m off to immerse myself in the weird and wonderful world of hockey – wish me luck!

Ice Hockey and Me: A Love Story

So after a couple of weeks of irksome prior arrangements it was finally time for another hockey Saturday. About time too. The Vipers took on the top side in the league, Belfast Giants, in the much promoted Halloween Havoc clash at Whitley Bay Ice Rink. The impressive number of travelling fans, complete with rather large drum, were so noisy we moved from our regular spot near the back of the bleachers to one row from the front, which turned out to be an excellent decision. It felt completely different. Despite certain areas of the ice being somewhat obstructed in terms of the view, being right next to the action was quite something. It made it all a lot easier to follow. It was also a fly by the seat of your pants-type experience in that every so often, players came crashing into the sidings literally three feet in front of my nose. I can’t say that a pair of hockey players swiftly applied to the face would be a wholly unpleasant experience, but it might be a bit unexpected and possibly a tad sore in the morning. So I’m quite glad the plastic shields held up their end of the bargain and contained both teams nice and safely, with my face unharmed on the other side.

Pic half-inched from the Vipers website, photo by Paul Lynch photography

I am also proud to say that after three matches, I am finally starting to recognise individual players, not just by their physical appearances but by their skating styles and even their movements on the puck. Some players are more how shall I say, functional in their skating; it's all about getting somewhere, quickly. Which is fine, and necessary. But others actually have real flair, and probably wouldn't look out of place if asked to perform a triple salko in a figure-skating contest. Okay, you might ask, what have you done with the girl who was getting a bit excitable over large brutish neanderthal types beating the crap out of each other. I don't know where she's gone, perhaps my penchant for aesthetics has overtaken my primitive desire for some good old-fashioned violence. Whatever the case, the light-footed and speedy Vipers won me over in last night's match.

I know for example, that my favourite player, Dale Mahovsky, skates face first (possibly why he lost a few teeth in last week's match), but with the effortless style of someone who has been on skates for at least as long as he has had legs. Possibly longer. Mahovsky's impressive skating, dogged determination and good clean game all cemented him firmly in my heart as my number 1 Viper on Saturday. I'm sure he'll be thrilled. He was vying for the position before defenceman Blair Stayzer left the club this week to return to his native Canada, but even without Stayzer's untimely abdication, Mahovsky still would have taken the throne with his performance this week. Toothless though he may be, he is valiant in his endeavours at all times. And actually helped get a Belfast goal written off due to some excellent work reasoning with the referee. A bit of a fan you say? Yes I do believe I am. I even wandered across to the shirt auction in the hope of inheriting his glorious Canadian sweat-laced special-edition jersey but alas, I was too late. Next time Dale, your shirt will be mine.

For fear of sounding a bit stalky, I'm going to move on.

Dale Mahovsky, prior to the dental incident. Photo again by Paul Lynch.

At this point can I just say, I love ice hockey. I love it, I love it, I love it. I could just roll around and bathe in it. I am so invested in my team already it actually hurts me when they lose, just like in football. Which is nearly always. And yet, we don't seem to deserve to. We played great on Saturday, despite having next to no defensive players available, and being up against the strongest team in the league. We were really good. Hard-working, some great skills, one of the most incredible saves I've ever seen in any sport by Charlie Effinger (who I'm also becoming quite fond of), a brilliant short-handed goal from Toms Hartmanis, a very jolly atmosphere and overall, a fully uplifting experience. I absolutely can't get enough. And I have a feeling that it’s just a matter of time before the results improve. Hopefully, a very short amount of it.

In the meantime, I’d like to share with others new to the sport a few more of my observations, gleaned from my initial experiences, for your amusement and hopefully to pique your interest! For those familiar with the sport, please feel free to point and laugh. I drafted this a couple of weeks ago so I do feel I’ve come on a bit since then!

Being a relatively under-represented sport in the UK it’s not surprising that teams have to work hard to secure a large amount of sponsorship to support their existence, but the extent to which it’s infiltrated the game makes me giggle. When I was at my first match and heard over the tannoy ‘icing, sponsored by Winn's Solicitor’s’ I was rightly confused. There was no cake in sight for a start. If there was, why hadn’t I been offered any? I have since discovered that icing is actually an illegal move, a bit like offside. But more puck-related than player-related. The pesky little thing sometimes gets ahead of itself, apparently.

Sponsoring an element of play is incomprehensible to me, and has always made me laugh, ever since we were at Hull’s KC stadium watching Watford a couple of seasons ago and the announcer kept insisting that penalties/half-time/possibly even throw-ins were sponsored by such-and-such. But I do understand the need for it in challenging times, especially for a sport that is so little known in this country. They could at least provide cake, though.

Something else I did find it quite difficult to keep up with in my first couple of hockey outings was the constant changing of personnel (I speak in the past tense as I am now, thankfully, beginning to catch on). There are unlimited changes allowed throughout the game, and according to the rulebook (of which I am now an aficionado) as long as they are not directly influencing play, players can even change during the run of play. Which seems like a wholly unnecessary complication when you consider by comparison the arguments that break out in football over exactly what constitutes 'directly influencing play' when disputing offside decisions. And football is played at less than a quarter of the speed of hockey. Really. It's been scientifically proven. By my eyes. But in hockey it can result in anything up to about 16 players on the ice at any one time, especially if both teams are switching line-ups simultaneously. It's baffling. I have a hard enough time matching what my eyes are seeing to what my brain thinks is going on without all that added confusion.

Which brings me to the player of the month award for September, which I feel it worth mentioning, despite it now being November. Latvian forward Toms Hartmanis took the honours, just ahead of Patrik Forsbacka, who probably came second due to the epic fight he had on the ice against Braehead, on the day that hockey stole my heart. But quite how anyone works out who their player of the month is I don't know, as following individuals is nigh on impossible; it’s like trying to find your pet bee at the Chelsea Flower Show. I've ended up choosing favourites based on their names, and the ones I've managed to track around the ice for more than a minute at a time. My reasoning is faultless.

Which reminds me, I have finally selected an NHL team. In the end I went for the ones with the nicest jerseys. Which turned out to be Calgary Flames. Minutes of careful research went into that decision, so don’t knock it. I also quite like Vancouver Canucks. For some reason I fancied supporting a Canadian team over an American one. It's colder there, therefore they have more of a right to win stuff on ice. QED.

Joke's over now, okay?

You get what you wish for, so they say. And ‘they’ as we all well know, are eminently wise. This weekend was a case in point. I said I couldn't cope with my teams doing well. And what a sorry state of affairs I was presented with as a scathing riposte.

Watford, Watford, Watford. Likened to Real Madrid by Mark Bright on Radio 5 Live midweek apparently, this was clearly not the same team who had impressed in their win over Ipswich. Or if it was, they had had some kind of skill lobotomy; so devoid of ideas were my beloved team that I honestly think we could have played until Christmas and not scored. And for the top-scoring side in the division, that is worrying. And a bit odd. It was like the spark had been suctioned right out of them. I think someone must have told them I was there and they were feeling the pressure to perform. Bless them. The only team member on top of his game was Harry the Hornet, our mascot, who appears to have lost about 12 stone since I last saw him. He now dresses all in black and is the svelte equivalent of a mascot superhero. He has some pretty tidy moves too. And a massive drum.

Having recently been to see some live hockey matches and having not seen any live football in months, I found it quite difficult to get my head back in the game. For example, I was quite disconcerted that the staff at Vicarage Road hadn’t taken to playing bursts of fitting R'n'B numbers whenever there was a break in play. I was also disappointed to find that throw-ins weren’t sponsored by Phones4U. I found myself glazing over a bit whenever there was a section of play that lasted longer than thirty seconds. Although that may just have been because the game was flatter than a pancake. Laid flat, on a flat thing. In Norfolk. Or perhaps my attention span has been butchered into submission by hockey and I’ll never be the same again. I was highly amused though, by my Dad, who in a fit of misplaced political correctness, called the referee a follically-challenged twat. The man has class!

Things went from bad to worse on Saturday night when, forced to miss the Vipers game against the Cardiff Devils due to my foray darn sarf, I sat tensely in my parent’s home following the match on the Elite Ice Hockey League’s Live Scores page (which is about the most nerve-wracking method of following a sporting contest I have ever encountered, I might add). We lost again, which I was gutted about. Even worse, whilst reading the match report half an hour or so later, I let out an audible gasp upon discovering that promising Canadian forward Dale Mahovsky had to be treated after a goal was deflected in off his jaw and he lost three teeth! I concluded that ice hockey was just a big mean boys game and the Cardiff team must be a bunch of Neanderthals. How could they. Poor boy. He was one of the pretty ones, as well.

So that was that. Another loss for the Vipers followed on Sunday and I was left feeling particularly sorry for myself as another Monday rolled around, and this one a cold, damp and thoroughly autumnal one. I’ve changed my mind. Can I have winning back please? I promise I won’t complain about it ever again. I was only kidding, y'know. The internet clearly can't take a joke these days. Hmph.

A Ray of Hope

So in a week where football news has been dominated by our Lord Potato-head, we have finally had some resolution, thank his Rooney-ness. Yes, after a public dirty laundry-airing that Kerry Katona would have been proud of, Rooney and Fergie had a press conference-off earlier in the week, then cancelled some press conferences, before finally coming out with the Final Press Conference: Resolution Rooney. Yes, he’s staying put. All that hype, all that mud-slinging, all those attempts by Wayne to actually sound like a master of the English language (he wasn‘t fooling anyone), all for nothing. We end the week the same as we began it. Rooney is a Man United player. Wow. What a lot of knicker-twisting for absolutely no action. Give me strength.

But the footballing gods provided Manna from heaven this week in the form of Ian Holloway, with his general south-west heart-on-his-sleeve ranty-ness and his use of the phrase ‘you’re having me over, me old cocker’; diamond geezer! And more importantly, the reinforcement of my lovely little football club as one of the nicest, most family and community-oriented clubs in the country. Like a shot in the arm of those wearied by Rooney and his pathetic stropping, came a story to warm the hearts of all those who still hold out hope that football has some goodness left in its still-warm corpse, even if it is only the little toe.

Watford super-fan Don Fraser, a devoted fan who for many years has attended all matches despite his physical disabilities and has previously won Radio 5 Live’s ‘supporter of the year’ award, injured himself in an accident and was admitted to hospital (Watford General, situated in Vicarage Road itself, of course) for a hip operation earlier this week. As a result of this he was forced to miss our midweek encounter with Roy Keane’s Ipswich. This is no obstacle to Watford, however. The day after the match, the two goalscorers from the match Marvin ‘Scoredell’ Sordell and Stephen McGinn, visited Mr Fraser in hospital and delivered a DVD of our 2-1 win for him to savour. How nice is that. How much further away from the tarting about of that overpaid, over-rated cheating scumbag of a supposed footballing superstar can you get. And that’s my club, people. Proud? Am I ever.

To top it all off, I make my first appearance of the season at Vicarage Road (the football ground, not the hospital, barring a late-night red wine-induced disaster) tomorrow, and I hope that the winning streak will continue. Because if anyone deserves it, Malky Mackay and the hard-working, genuine set of lads he commands do. How I love my little club, still flying high at 3rd place in the Championship. That’s just 5 places below Liverpool, don’t you know.

Not to be outdone, the most annoying administrator ever to walk the earth, Andrew Andronikou, has today had yet another chance to fan his over-sized ego following the news that Portsmouth may yet again be up Poop Creek without a steering device. Doesn’t he know administrators are meant to be seen and not heard. Or preferably, not seen at all. I mean really, is he necessary? Never has one man had so much publicity over so little (obviously I am not belittling Pompey's dire circumstances, but rather, despairing over the day that an administrator became a spokeperson of such gravity. And I am one. Albeit, a less important one). He’s no better than the traffic warden who has just slapped a ticket on the prime minister’s car. Except, we might actually like him.

Best of luck to Pompey in bringing themselves back from the brink once again. and best of luck to my little team for in their match against another little team, Scunthorpe, tomorrow. As for Rooney, I hope his 'ankle' heals in good time for him to continue to do absolutely nothing for United for the foreseeable future.

Insert Tabloid-esque Rooney-related Headline Here

Discussing football is starting to actually hurt me, physically. I can’t resist it, however, and will always allow myself to be drawn into a conversation on the subject, despite the almost bolted on certainty that it will end with me either sighing heavily enough to induce a pulmonary embolism or damaging property belonging to myself or (preferably) someone else. Don’t get me wrong, I still love my little Watford and that will never, ever change. As the saying goes, cut me open and I bleed red and gold. In fact, I’m literally about to go and visit the National Blood Service to prove this very fact as they take out a pint of the stuff to be replaced by a cup of orange squash and a Tuc biscuit. Beat that bitches!

But anyway, I digress (riding off on the name of my blog again, apparently!). When it comes to England, and most Premiership clubs and footballers, I literally can’t take much more. I hate them. All of them (well, most of them - I do still have a soft spot for Sunderland, although I will admit I'm a bit biased). I had a discussion on Monday about Wayne Rooney’s potential future at Manchester City that actually made me want to physically expel the contents of my stomach out of the car window. I was travelling quite quickly around a large, crowded roundabout at the time and the thought occurs that it could actually have been quite interesting to study the trajectory of said stomach contents but again, I digress.

Apparently it was suggested that good old, salt of the earth club Cit-eh might pay His Holy potato-headed-ness half a million pounds a week to secure his seemingly magical footballing services. That’s £500,000, people. Per week. That’s seven days. If you’re interested, that breaks down to £2,976.19 per hour. Watch that second hand tick round for a few minutes. If you’re Rooney, you’ve now got enough to buy a tailored suit, or a top of the range watch. Jog up and down a patch of grass and kick a bit of plastic with air inside it for less than a day and you’ve got enough for a brand new BMW. Or 50-odd high class hookers. Just sayin’.

Illustration by S D Madgwick

Now, I’ve clearly missed something. It must have recently emerged that Rooney’s feet are in fact made entirely of Swarovski crystal, encrusted with one carat diamonds. His touch must quite clearly be as light as a downy feather plucked from the plump breast of a Christmas goose. One strike of the ball from Sir Wayne of Roonshire will make the fine women of England-land fall elegantly to their knees, panting and fanning themselves delicately whilst weeping tears of liquid silver.

Could it be that this one man, with skills silkier than blankets made from the pelts of a thousand Andrex puppies, this man with an understanding of football so far removed from us mere mortals that he actually exists in another realm entirely, has reached such a level of exaltedness that his breath-taking, palpitation-inducing, panty-moistening talent thus excuses the actions of his corporeal being? This is a human form, a physical host which unlike the infallible godlike athlete that inhabits it, slopes about the football pitch with cheeks bright red and sweat beading on its prehistoric brow, whilst off the pitch indulging in the delights of the local nightlife and procreating with the elderly and ladies of the night. It certainly offers no good reason for making it a millionaire on a fortnightly basis. Therefore, one can only conclude, that Wayne Rooney is basically God.

The burden of proof has landed squarely in the gold-tassled lap of Sheik Mansour, and he may or may not choose to reveal to the world its new Messiah; this man whose talents are so far elevated above the perceptions of us lowly plebeians that we cannot even SEE them. They exist purely in our imagination, or the collective unconscious, like the ability to learn language or the incomprehensible desire to try to put our big toes in our own mouths or receive mild electric shocks for no apparent reason. The holy man chooses not to manifest these skills in such demeaning and rudimentary contests as ‘The World Cup’ and ‘The Premier League’, instead selecting to reserve them for his other deity buddies, playing keepy-uppies in the heavens with Buddha, Jesus and The Prophet Mohammed. Hence why no-one can actually figure out if he’s actually any good anymore. But it has become apparent to me that blind faith alone is the only recourse in these dark and desperate times, as it has been so many times in the history of our species. We shall gaze upon God-Wayne with unerring devotion, until such time as he deigns to employ his crystalline feet in the pursuit of winning a football match once more.

Yes, well. That’s what I think about that in a rather over-sized nutshell. It has since been confirmed that Rooney will leave United, and I hope for his sake and ours that he chooses a club in Spain, Italy or perhaps even Uzbekistan. Lord knows he needs a break from the British media and Christ f%*king knows we all need a long and peaceful break from him. Let the potato famine begin.

Blind ambition

Having been blogularly somewhat more prolific over the last few weeks the thought occurs that I should use my current thrusting creative urge to actually forge ahead a bit in what is supposed to have been something resembling a career for me. My 17-year-old self seemed steadfastly convinced, for at least 50% of the year anyway, that my future lay in journalism. Whether it was to be music or sport seemed to be the only thing in question. (The other 50% of the year around that time my ambitions were roughly divided between heart surgeon, speech therapist and translator. Quite what this says about me I'm not sure, other than that I'm clearly not a very decisive person as, 12 years later, I am still stuck in administration. My 17-year-old self would not be amused. But I’m older than her so she can keep her mouth shut!).

I'm never quite sure whether or not to feel gut-wrenchingly disappointed that, almost 30 years into my time on this planet, I haven't really started doing what I actually want to do with my life (not that the first 18 or so really count as full time education does tend to get in the way a bit). I have in recent years swung pendulously from one startlingly urgent desire to the next, from one moment deciding that running my own rock pub is absolutely the only course of action available to me and actually researching vacant properties in the area, to genuinely believing in the next instance that I could be the world's best screenwriter and getting a good 90 pages into my first script before deciding it was rubbish and abandoning it. Will I ever grow out of this irritating habit of blindly barnstorming my way from one unrealistic ambition to the next? I really hope so, because if I don't I'm going to end up leading a pretty forgettable existence from the point of view of society as a whole.

It's not like I have a burning desire to discover a cure for the common cold, or to found the next Facebook, or resuscitate hamsters. I'm fully aware that to do something truly great takes a finely tuned combination of any of the following ingredients: natural genius or talent, dumb luck, meticulous training, bravery, or favourable breeding and the connections that come with that. To be famous, or brilliant, is quite another thing to just succeeding at something. And although I'd like to think of myself as perhaps not the most shabby Senior Administrator in all of higher education-dom, I'm painfully aware that I really don't think it's what I was put on this earth to do.

And so it is that I come back, once again, to writing. The spontaneous and genuinely unplanned spouting of my brain matter onto a computer screen that somehow gets me through these almost manic periods of nervous but misdirected creativity. It's something that I can do. I may not be the most gifted writer in the world. But it feels good to empty some of my thoughts into the comforting receptacle of crap that is the internet in the hope that one day, through no fault of my own, someone of consequence might happen upon my ramblings and think to offer me copious sums of money to write about whatever I feel like, whenever the moment takes me. Because that's how it works, right?

But the problem with my writing is the same problem I have with my attitude to careers in general. Wildly fluctuating obsession is not conducive to getting ahead in life, or so it would appear. If I could pick a subject and stick to it, perhaps I might be a bit more driven to pursuing a final goal. But sometimes I write about music. And sometimes about sport. Sometimes even about film. And then sometimes, when I'm plummeting headlong toward an existential crisis, I write about myself. And the crap that goes on in my head. Not wise, really. Does the BBC have a position for 'Journalist without Portfolio', do you think? Obviously they'd have to lend me to Metalhammer, or Film Magazine, or possibly even Woman's Weekly once in a while, but that's okay, isn't it?

So here I am, being honest with my blog. Because goddamnit, if you can't be honest with a bundle of HTML coding that exists on a microchip or some other such nonsense, who can you be honest with? I don't even know if this is going to make it that far. Let’s face it, I'm not being honest at all; it's Monday night, and I'm typing into the draft message box of my Yahoo account whilst drinking red wine. I don't know why. I just felt the urge. So make me do something productive, will you? The furthest I've come in the last year or so to doing something about furthering my career was emailing a guy at a well-known music publication with a link to my blog and an offer of freelance work in my area. He actually responded, which was kind. He said they didn't have any work at the minute, but he suggested I didn't use the first person in my writing. But it's a blog... Okay, I take his point. Sort of.

Anyway, as a sort of catharsis, and a contract with myself and the internet, I will now lay bare for you all of the things that I have wanted to do with my life, over the years. Here is the list, in roughly chronological order (for some reason I can't remember what I wanted to be further back than about the age of 10):

When I grow up, I want to be:

Magazine editor, international swimmer, David Attenborough, novelist, RAF pilot, heart surgeon, primary school teacher, translator, speech therapist, English lecturer, international rower, rock radio DJ, journalist, bass player, A&R person, party planner, bookshop owner, choreographer, pub owner, screenwriter, festival organiser.

Notice the lack of 'postgraduate senior administrator' on that list. Hmm, funny that.

POSTSCRIPT: Seemingly goading me into action following my above rant (which I actually wrote last week), Fate dealt me a proverbial and timely kick up the derriere on Friday, as news of the impending doom of massive budget cuts to higher education struck and left us all fearing for our jobs.

Of course, I feel for the future students and their families, who have to bear the brunt of what is essentially going to be a tuition fee free-for-all (and not the good kind), but looking inward, the timing couldn’t really have been more ironic from a personal point of view and therefore, my new mission ('Balls; acquire a set') has been launched. It’s now or never people. I must launch myself from the precipice of doubt into the abyss of uncertainty and hope that there’s a trampoline at the bottom. Or at the very least, some light padding. Or a sandwich. Wish me luck!

And normal service is resumed… (or, why sporting success is bad for me)

I don't seem to cope well when teams and individuals I support in sport do well. It's all a bit, well, satisfying, to be honest, and frankly I was having a hard time reconciling my thoroughly British desire to have a whinge and be a bit glum with the success going on in my various areas of sporting interest. I'd become a bit giddy of late, what with Watford reaching the dizzying heights of fourth in the Championship and all the goals they’ve been scoring, and then I go and start supporting a new sports team and their response is to win immediately! It's all been too much for me, I've been having palpitations, you know. Luckily, the winning streak was soon to come to an end.

I mustered a respectable crowd of 5, including myself, for the Newcastle Vipers match against Coventry Blaze on Saturday night, following last week’s epiphany (that being that ice hockey is a sport I could really get involved in – see my previous post!). I even managed to drum up some actual enthusiasm! Mostly in anticipation of the numerous fights I had promised would break out (see, I told you it wasn’t just me!) but hey, they were there and that’s what counted.

We arrived early enough to see the pre-match warm-up which was quite a sight. Very well orchestrated training drills gave the impression of a tight-knit unit, which is what you would expect, they are professional athletes don't you know. But it proved to be a bit of a false prophet; not quite such a pretty picture was painted by the team when it came to the match itself. At first glance it appeared the Vipers were a little more organised than the previous week against Braehead Clan, and definitely more focused, with very little in the way of physical conflict – much to the disappointment of my brethren who were all but baying for blood, and also so it seemed later, to the detriment of the team.

Coventry were simply much more well organised and motivated, and they attacked Vipers netminder Charlie Effinger with increasing ferocity, systematically exposing the flaws in the Vipers’ defence culminating in a five-goal stand in the second period which effectively ended the game and put the kybosh on what might otherwise have been a jolly happy evening in Whitley Bay town centre. (Does it sound like I know what I’m talking about yet?).

Gone was the buzz of the previous week, to be replaced by an air of frustration and discontent at the dismal showing, one particularly disgruntled fan taking it out on a poor, unsuspecting seat right in front of us and almost causing foot-al injury to my better half (although I have a sneaking suspicion his anger may have been caused in part at least by a spot of domestic unrest rather than the hockey). Luckily seats don’t fight back, although I’m not so sure about his rather shouty spouse who stormed after him all guns blazing. Apparently it’s not just the players who get wound up at hockey matches.

On reflection, despite a pretty uninspiring performance, I did enjoy the evening. My understanding of the game has increased exponentially in the space of a week, the kaleidoscopic action shifting ever so subtley before my very eyes and dissolving into clarity, sort of like a big, cold, 3D magic eye picture. The hyperactive fly effect of the first night was substituted for a spectacle of grace and aggression – by no means a perfect exemplar of the game of ice hockey in general, but enough to enchant me nonetheless. I continued on to think that perhaps I should begin following the NHL. After all, they exhibit the game at its finest. But it’s a rather strange concept, selecting a team to support when you don’t have the slightest inclination of loyalty to any of the available options. I was thinking about basing my selection on the team with the coolest name (currently I’m between the Buffalo Sabres and Minnesota Wild) but in reality, it’s best for me to wait a couple of weeks and just see who settles at the bottom of the league. It’s best for all involved.

Elsewhere, and vying heavily for a spot in my rundown of depressing sporting news of the week, my favourite Americans Sam Querrey and Mardy Fish fared poorly in the Beijing ATP 500 tournament, Querrey being knocked out by in-form Frenchman Gilles Simon and Fish pulling out prior to his second round clash with Novak Djokovic with an ankle injury. Probably for the best as the Djoker is 5-0 up in the head-to-head statistics against Mardy. Not pretty! Sadly it also means he has withdrawn from the Shanghai Masters this week, so no Fishy action for me for some time to come it seems. I may have to resort to supporting Rafa again. Although he wins most of the time so I don’t think it’s a good idea on account of my fragile constitution and overly realistic expectations of my sporting charges.

The best thing about the weekend’s sport was that as no Premier League or Championship games were taking place, it was physically impossible for Watford or Sunderland to lose. Bonus! On the down side, England are taking on Montenegro in a European Cup qualifier tonight and it’s being televised on terrestrial channels, so I will feel obliged to watch it despite my impassioned vows to the contrary following the World Cup. Oh joy. Hopefully we’ll put in a mediocre performance and scrape a 1-0 victory in a predictable and entirely tame snooze-fest of a match. Any more than that, and I might have to start on the blood pressure medication.

It’s cold, it’s hard and it’s right outside my house: a novice’s review of an ice hockey match

Yes, it’s another post about sport. Really, I can’t help it. I haven’t been to any gigs lately. It’s not my fault. It’s not just any sport though. It’s that most whimsical and enigmatic sport generally embraced by those with colder climes than ourselves, ice hockey. I’ve never really thought about ice hockey before, other than a novelty visit to a match during my time in the states, 10 years ago (and that was in Arkansas so it really can’t have counted). So when my other half brought home free tickets to last Sunday’s Newcastle Vipers match I was mildly intrigued but thought no more of it until the time came for us to head to Whitley Bay ice rink.

Newcastle Vipers are an elite league ice hockey team who had suffered of late from a win-less run of matches in what was obviously a frustrating opening to their season. Or at least, that’s probably what someone who knew about British ice hockey would say at the beginning of a match report. I, on the other hand, was blissfully oblivious to any of the back-story at the time, but on reflection, the reactions that night of a clearly dedicated fan-base spoke of a team in desperate need of some success. I have been that fan on many an occasion in my long and tumultuous relationship with Watford FC, so I should have recognised it. And now I have, I’m right on board.

Okay I’ve bleated non-sensically for a bit but I can’t ignore the elephant in the room any longer. Being a total ice hockey noob, one of the few things I really knew about the sport was that they seem to have a lot of fights. I had wondered in passing whether being a bit cold perhaps makes one slightly irritable, or maybe it’s just the jock-itch beneath all that padding that puts a player in an argumentative frame of mind. Either way, anyone with even a vague knowledge of the sport knows that it goes on and is an accepted part of the game of ice hockey. Yet I have to say, I was still surprised to see it happening right in front of me. And I couldn’t actually tell at the time whether or not the fights were for real, or staged, something like wrestling. I was hedging towards the latter and wondering if it was all bit camp and unnecessary but after further discussion and research it appears that this isn’t the case at all. It probably only looks a bit camp because it’s hard to have a fight when both antagonists are on skates.

Apparently, fighting, or ‘roughing’ as it’s known in the sport, is tactically important as the players defend their most valuable team-mates and disrupt their opponents’ play, and although it isn’t officially allowed within the rules of game, it’s not severely punished either, and officials are content to stand back and let it run its course in most cases. It’s actually condoned as part of the game in the US. Is it wrong that I find it mildly arousing? Probably. But I know for a fact I am not the only one. And most of the others are men.

Anyway, besides the fighting, what else can I tell you about ice hockey, from my completely novice point of view. It’s a very American sport. And by that I mean, there are a LOT of stoppages in play. During which, a multitude of well-chosen popular music clips are played over the tannoy and/or the match announcer explains what’s just happened in language that only those who already know what’s just happened can understand. Altogether, this made the bits where they WEREN’T playing a lot more over-whelming and confusing than the bits when they were. Even though the game-play itself is carried out at approximately the speed of sound and appears to have about as much form and style as a hyperactive fly at an all night rave. It’s a game for those with the attention span of a goldfish. A goldfish with Alzheimers, at that. It was in no way unpleasant though. In terms of levels of understanding versus levels of enjoyment, I suppose I felt something akin to a toddler watching a group of drunken adults play Twister at Christmas. Wide-eyed and happy, but rather confused and slightly concerned for the welfare of all involved, including myself.

And also, I found myself in the novel and unnerving situation of not knowing what the offside rule was. It’s not just because I’m a woman, OKAY?! Don’t worry, it was the first thing I learnt during my subsequent ice hockey rules study session.

Yet there was something undeniably thrilling about the whole experience. Maybe it was just the knowledge that top level sport was being played right on my doorstep, and the excitement of expanding my mind around completely new game, hungry as I currently appear to be for a football substitute (and all this despite Watford’s current impressive run of form). Maybe it was the exotic sounding names on the team sheet, giving me leave to support a team with ‘Newcastle’ in its name despite my Mackem loyalties, after all, Blair Stayzer and Patrik Forsbacka can’t be Geordies, can they?! Or maybe it was just the chill in the air, the buzz of the crowd and the tension of the final few minutes that reminded me just how much fun it is to kick back and take in a live sporting event. There’s nothing quite like it. So I’m going back for more this Saturday.

As we later concluded, this is physically the closest top level sport to our home that currently exists (unless there’s a pro tiddly-winks league situated in the Billy Mill area of North Shields that I’m not aware of), and not only is that quite an exciting prospect, it also gives me no excuse not to get involved. Go Vipers!

U.S.Eh?

I don’t know why I’ve become such a US sympathiser when it comes to tennis. It’s not as if our pals across the pond are short of supporters in any of their sporting endeavours.

Or so you would think. As it goes, when it comes to tennis, the majority of American sports fans these days fall into one of two broad camps: indifference, or scornful disbelief – can the leader of the free world really no longer have a man in the world's top 10? It’s unthinkable. To a country that more often than not finds itself at the top of countless sporting leaderboards, not winning – at least sometimes – is simply not an option.

Perhaps this attitude is borne out of having so-called ‘world series’ competitions in your national sports but not inviting any other nations along to participate. I jest. Well, sort of. In all seriousness, the US has always been a nation that has excelled in all areas of sporting achievement. Their amazing strength in depth in both individual and team competition must surely come from the extensive infrastructure that supports, encourages and promotes sporting endeavour from pre-school right through to the exclusive college scholarships and lucrative cooperate sponsorship deals at the professional end. Sport is big business, but yet it appeals to every young American, the allure of honing yourself as a physical specimen whilst bringing home glory for the red, white and blue too strong for its wide-eyed and hopeful youth.

And tennis was no different. American mens’ tennis seemed to experience a perpetual glory era, and in my earliest memories of Wimbledon lurk the brash characters of Connors and Macenroe, followed in the 90’s by the consistently brilliant Sampras and the wildly talented and charimastic Agassi. A little later followed Andy Roddick, who although never seemingly reaching his full potential, still has a Grand Slam title under his belt and years in the top 10 to be proud of. America have always had a few guys at the top to shout about.

So why am I so bothered about them, and why now? The state of American tennis and the frustration at their recent lack of success felt by the general populace was never clearer than at this year’s US Open, where the current pretenders to the almighty shoes of Macenroe, Sampras et al were relentlessly interrogated by the American media about the pressure to perform and the almost pathological desire of Americans to be in the top 10.

‘We’re doing our best,’ replied Sam Querrey, the youngest of the current crop of top Americans at 23. He was pragmatic in his responses to the success-hungry media and I couldn’t help but feel sorry for him, and also view very distinct parallels between himself and some of our own athletes and sportspeople, as the pressure of national expectation was hung over him like the sword of Damocles. The British media are frequently lambasted by other countries for being too hard on our sportspeople and piling on the pressure, but it seems that the American media are no better. Despite an inconsistent year, the affable Querrey has won four ATP 250 titles, but has lacked confidence on the bigger stages and has openly admitted that at times he just isn’t at the top of his game. How much of this, one sometimes wonders, is down to the sheer weight of expectation being shovelled onto his not inconsiderable shoulders.

Coping better with the pressure it seems is Mardy Fish. The most experienced of the current in-form crop at the age of 28, Fish lost 30lbs following a special nutrition and fitness regime and has since become a completely new player, performing spectacularly in 2010. He has picked up two titles and numerous final appearances, and he put in one of the strongest American performances in history in the recent Davis Cup play-off against Chile, playing three of the four rubbers, totalling over 11 hours tennis in three consecutive days, singles and doubles, at 9000ft altitude, and all with the crowd against him. An absolutely Spartan effort.

Making up the trio of American hopefuls is 6’9” John Isner, who shot to tennis fame this year after his epic first round tie at Wimbledon against Nicolas Mahut. He really seems to be the hot prospect, currently developing the weaker areas of his game to add to the giant, high-bouncing serve that is already frustrating opponents at all levels, and has been tipped to break into the top 10 in 2011.

So maybe things aren’t so bad after all? To a British tennis fan, of course, four players in the top 25 is an unimaginable fantasy. But even if we had that, would we let them rest easy in the comfort of their already admirable achievements? Would we bollocks. We’d expect Grand Slam titles to be seeping from every gold-rimmed orifice, year after triumph-filled year. Would we have the right to expect this? Absolutely not. Do the Americans? Arguably, yes. I’m British and I can’t help but support the underdog. And however paradoxic it may seem, right now, unbelievably, in the world of tennis, Team America are just that.

Festival review – Bloodstock Open Air – 13th-15th August 2010

It’s time to bring the metal back to this here blog! And what better way to do it than with a look back at a most excellent weekend of music and frivolity at Catton Hall in Derbyshire.

It started out on Thursday with a leisurely arrival on site and about an hour of sunshine and a nice glass of boxed wine by our freshly-pitched tents, before the gods frowned upon us and the heavens opened. The rain was quite something, it has to be said. That night two of our three tents were robbed and in the remaining tent, my other half was vomiting up a sausage of the apocalypse. Let’s just say, it was an inauspicious start.

But from small beginnings grow massive trees, or however the saying goes, and the weekend improved one day at time. This is some of what our ears were treated to over the three days.

Friday 13th August

On this most metal of dates, we were up bright and early and waiting expectantly in the New Blood unsigned bands tent for the first band of the weekend, Under Blackened Skies from Birmingham, who also happen to contain a good friend of ours, Mr Manu Patel on lead vocals. They kicked seven shades of crap out of the slowly awakening masses, the delicate hour of the morning no obstacle to their thundering metal juggernaut of a sound, big fat riffs and drum savagery all tied up in the most metal of bows, the guttural trachea-clenching vocals of Manu. I was rather like a proud mother it has to be said, and I was very impressed with what I saw. It was also great to see the gang from Birmingham after quite some time away. A great start to proceedings.

Over on the mainstage we caught a snippet of Black Spiders. Quite what they were doing at Bloodstock I don’t really know; they sounded like Queens of the Stone Age-lite. Repetitive and underwhelming, they really must be the most over-rated alternative band of the moment. Ross the Boss then proceeded to bring some power metal to the party, and even from the campsite we could hear him being, er, shrill.

Drafted in as last-minute replacements for Behemoth who unfortunately had to cancel due to illness, legendary British metallers Cathedral were a fine substitute. They got everyone going with their inimitable mix of stoner rock and psychedelia, their material from past and present sounding as fresh as ever.

Sonata Arctica were a funny one. We caught the majority of their set whilst waiting in the Opeth signing queue, and despite sounding like a credible option for Finland’s next foray into the Eurovision song contest, they were sort of good. The lead singer, despite wearing a WHITE hoodie (where does he think he is, the streets of Wallsend?!) was quite charming and seemed to be having a jolly nice time. Bless him. My other half pronounced that they were ‘terrible’ – so that’s both bases covered there then.

In the early evening glow, sub-headliners Meshuggah bludgeoned my tired mind with their insanely tight rhythms for an hour, during which time I felt like my brain may well have been covertly impregnated with some kind of coding which will turn me into a math metal drone the next time I hear a bar of 156/21 time. Watch this space – and nobody play me any Dillinger Escape Plan for crying out loud.

Friday’s headliners, in place of Heaven & Hell, were Sweden’s finest export, the genius that is Mikael Akerfeldt and his travelling band of musos known as Opeth. I have seen this band quite a number of times in the last couple of years but it has to be said that they were absolutely breath-taking tonight. Their sound was clear as a bell, their setlist was impeccably selected and included gems from across their back catalogue, as well as a cover of ‘Catch the Rainbow’ by Rainbow. It was a poignant and fitting tribute to the late Ronnie James Dio, and featured a rather nervous-looking Mikael shedding his guitar and facing the crowd with nothing but his voice. He did an astounding job and I salute him. He somehow manages to combine self-effacing with wry arrogance, but he always does so with an air of comedic inspiration, and I for one am a massive fan.

Saturday 14th August

The day began with a lot of trudging through a lot of mud as the heavens had officially decide to turn against the heathens overnight and had thrown down their wet fury upon us for hour upon hour. Lovely stuff. However, a ray of sunshine was threatening to peep through as the showers continued to taunt us, and we watched our first two bands of the day mostly from the sheltered edge of the Bloodstock Arms. First up for us was Leaves’ Eyes, a female-fronted Scandinavian folk-type outfit. Prizes to be awarded here, one for the most pointless band member of the weekend (and may I point out this was a weekend which included GWAR), the instrument-free bloke who basically just threw his ridiculously long dreads around and shouted ‘come on’ a lot. And secondly for most wooden lead singer of the weekend. The woman, although dressed impeccably, was either laced far too tightly into her corset, or future world peace was resting on her not putting a perfectly straight blonde hair out of place, as she didn’t move a muscle the entire show other than a theatrically raised arm here and there. She also sounded like Celine Dion. Just terrible.

Secondly were Evile. This was far more like it. This British thrash quartet really have stamped their mark on the metal scene and it’s clear to see why. Instantly accessible despite having some insanely complex guitar work, they combine classic heavy metal with an electric live performance, as well as being seemingly thoroughly nice blokes to boot. Bravo.

Next we had an excursion into the New Blood tent to check out a couple of very different up and coming acts. Zocalo first, a groove-laden rock band in the southern style, fronted by another female singer; the contrast couldn’t have been greater. This girl had attitude, personality and more groove than a box of LPs, and when the band realised they had gone under time and could do an encore the place went mad. Great stuff. Lithurgy were up next and couldn’t have been more different. Edgy, angsty, passionate, driven, mature, puzzling… These guys were a musical conundrum, fusing progressive and technical metal with the part-grindcore part-post-hardcore vocal stylings of the lead singer, who also brandished a saxophone at one point in the set, as well as dancing in a way that would make even his mother cringe. Interesting band, and one I shall be keeping an eye on in future years.

The Jagermeister acoustic stage was little more than a speaker on the back of a truck, and we visited it for the first time later that day to hear midlands-based gothic duo Hanging Doll, whose maudlin lyrics and haunting vocals somehow managed to distract the small crowd from the sound of Obituary’s sound check. Quite a feat. Obituary themselves held our attention for a small time and sounded damn good, the death metal legends clearly on fine form, but we were on our way to the tent again for a gander at London-based metallers Silas, who weren’t the best band of the weekend in terms of exceptional musical talent, but they were great fun to watch, and the singer was so cockney it was unreal. I’m fairly certain he offered us a pound of tomatoes half price at one point.

My lovely Finns Amorphis were next up on the Ronnie James Dio stage. They didn’t draw a huge crowd which was a shame as they delivered a really energetic, enjoyable set, featuring a few songs from their latest offering ‘Skyforger’ along with some of their older material. Lead singer Tomi Joutsen became the second man of the day with rotating dreads of over a meter long, but in comparison with the pointless bloke from Leaves’ Eyes, he could sing, and was a little barrel of dynamite at the front of the stage. A really tanned one, strangely.

The most anticipated set of the weekend was next on the list, and the excitement was palpable as a huge crowd gathered for Devin Townsend. He surprised everyone by appearing onstage during his soundcheck, dressed in a simple t-shirt and jeans, proceeding to fiddle about with gear for a while after a sheepish wave at the enthralled masses. The next half an hour involved some serious technical issues for the Canadian, but he kept the crowd entertained throughout with constant banter, general pissing about and even an interpretive dance routine. The guy is mesmeric, it’s truly impossible to tear your eyes away from him as he struts across the stage gurning and grinning like a maniac. The set he produced, although curtailed, was blinding, his soaring voice and effortless guitar-playing making grown men weep tears of molten lava. I shit you not.

Fear Factory were the first of the co-headliners for the evening and for me, they started fairly tamely, but improved throughout. The stage bravely held up despite what was surely the hugest combined weight of a single band ever to tread its boards (and again I’ll remind you, this was a festival that included GWAR, their infinity members and massive costumes included). I was as sad as my companions were amused to note that the ravages of time hadn’t done Burton C Bell’s vocals a whole heap of good, and I have to admit the tuning was off a lot of the time, but hey, they’re an industrial metal band, how important can it be? When I felt my attention waning later in the set and shouted ‘play more songs from Demanufacture!’ the metal gods must have been listening – either that or Burton C Bell has ridiculously good hearing – because almost immediately Bell proclaimed ‘the rest of the set will be made up of songs from Demanufacture!’. I was a happy bunny and it all picked up from there.

Children of Bodom were the second co-headliner and as we headed back to the tents for some food and beverages, I was really disappointed I hadn’t stayed to watch them. They sounded really good.

Sunday 14th August

Finally the rain had fully abated and we awoke to sunshine, which improved steadily throughout the day. Nice. As I’m writing this from the future and have just realised I hadn’t got as far as Sunday before being a lazy goit and forgetting about finishing this post, I’m going to keep the Sunday reviews short. Very short.

Neonfly – they played in the unsigned tent. We didn't like them. We left.

Suffocation – hardcore shoutyness of the worst kind – macho and giant bollocked and full of shite. Went on about guns. Twat.

Holy Moses – the music was really quite good – almost grungy at times! But the German bird singer was not.

Doro – more German women than you can shake a stick at on the mainstage today. Doro was good – good rock vocals and really got the crowd going. Covered ‘Breaking the Law’ which was, um, an experience.

Korpiklaani – I was drunk by this point and it was fantastic. Crazy Finnish folk band, prize for line of the weekend went to the singer who before one track proclaimed ‘just follow the accordian’! When are you ever going to hear that again at a metal gig! Lots of country dancing, general bouncing around and mad cheering ensued. Fab.

GWAR – no idea what their music sounded like, and I don’t think anyone really cared, including the band. Fantastic entertainment, giant costumes, hideously unpleasant role-playing, lots of goo.

Gojira – absolutely incredible. Tight, crushing, soaring, engaging, electrifying. The surprise package of the weekend for those who weren’t fans prior to the festival. For those of us that were, Gojira delivered the goods as they always do, proving themselves once again to be one of the best live bands currently in existence. We even managed to meet them afterwards and have them sign some stuff, and jolly nice fellows they were too.

Bloodbath – the death metal ‘super-group’ composed of members of Opeth and Katatonia, Bloodbath offered us Mikael Akerfeldt in a somewhat different guise to his appearance two nights previously. They didn’t take themselves too seriously and delivered a decent set, impressive considering it was only their 8th time playing live together.

Twisted Sister – convinced we would hate them, we all went back to the campsite to enjoy the last few drinks of what had been an amazing weekend. However, deciding it was our last chance to hear some live music, we fancied a wander and plus, it was a headliner so we should probably have a look. So we trooped back into the arena and enjoyed some drunken call and response antics with the impressively-locked Dee Schneider and his band. A surprising and fun end to the weekend.

Good times had by all? Most definitely. I do have some pictures to punctuate the rather huge lump of text I’ve thrown at you but they’re not with me right now. I may or may not remember to upload some at some undisclosed point in the near or distant future. The End.

A spot of tennis? It’s poetry in motion.

By way of an apology to anyone who comes here expecting gig reviews (yes I know you flock to my blog in your thousands): I should probably divide this blog into two somehow. Or just start different blogs for my waxing and waning interests. My distinct lack of exposure to live music so far this year, particularly in the last three months or so, has not only disturbed me deeply, but coupled with the pathetic flailings of the England ‘football’ team in South Africa has led me to a new obsession, and one which I am enjoying so thoroughly I sincerely doubt I’ll ever get tired of it. I knew I was more excited about tennis than usual this year but I wasn’t sure why. Well finally I know. It’s the sport I should have been focussing on all these years – loving it for a month or so a year just simply isn’t enough. I’ve been doing that since I was 8 or 9 years old, so why hasn’t it stuck sooner? So I’ve taken the plunge and invested myself in the sport, heart and soul, over the past couple of months, and here’s what I’ve concluded so far about why it’s the most under-rated spectator sport going.

1) There’s always something to be excited about. In the whole year there’s literally only about 3 weeks in December when there ISN’T a tennis competition of some kind going on. It’s like the football season, only better. There are matches EVERY DAY. There’s always another draw to look forward to, another upset, another rising star or fallen idol, another giant serve or breath-taking backhand. It never ends. Therefore it is pure, and perfect.

2) The perpetrators of this fine sport appear to be thoroughly nice chaps. They converse jocularly with one another through such modern networks as Twitter, and they do so with articulate intelligence, often not in their first language, and sometimes even in two. Beats Rio Ferdinand’s monosyllabic nonsense into the ground. They earn good money for their profession, yes, but outside of the top echelons of the sport (and I’m talking a seriously limited number of people here) they are not paid ridiculous sums of money, and even those that are remain humble, dedicated, and passionate about their sport. Like athletes, these are men and women who tend to remain involved with tennis long after they have retired from the tour, playing Masters and exhibition events and generally keeping themselves in great shape. It’s a really nice network of people who genuinely seem to love what they do.

3) Also like athletics, it’s easy to support individuals in tennis, regardless of what country they are from. It’s a sport where for the most part, individuals are competing for themselves, and so the feeling of needing to support your own countrymen is not as strong. Thankfully, as I’m really not a fan of the unfortunate-faced surly oik that Britain calls its number one these days. I’ve been a patriot when it comes to sport for a number of years, and although up until recently I used to love supporting England at football, I can’t deny that it made a nice change once the fumbling bunch of duffers had gone out of the World Cup to support the teams that I actually liked watching. And that’s why I love tennis so much. You can do that all the time. It’s a carte blanche to get behind whoever you damn well please.

4) It’s completely unpredictable. The obscenely complicated rankings system means that players have to employ real strategy when deciding which tournaments to play, and which to sit out. This means that you see a different collection of players in every tournament; countless different match-ups and myriad possibilities for outcomes. Add to this four different surfaces, each with their respective merits and disadvantages, and it really is a recipe for an ever-fluctuating, thrilling year-round experience. Not just two weeks in June – much as those Pimms and strawberry-filled weeks are a joy to everyone involved with the sport, from the armchair fan to the players themselves, many of whom see Wimbledon as a mecca, a kind of mothership to which they strive to return year in year out. It really is worth keeping up with once the grass of the All-England club falls silent.

5) The sport itself is a joy to watch, but there is so much going on off court too. Tennis is as much a mental as it is a physical game. It’s an endless tussle between rest and recovery, and achieving that much sought-after match fitness. Players must gamble with their bodies and make judgements over which tournaments would best suit their hunt for points, all leading towards the Barclays-sponsored ATP Tour Finals which will be held in London for the second time this year, on the indoor hard courts at the O2 arena. I have already purchased tickets and am breathless with anticipation as to who I will actually see in action. And the beauty of this fluid yet erratic sport is, other than the beast that is Rafael Nadal, who has already scored enough points to guarantee a place at this prestigious event, I really don’t know yet.

So there you have it. The biggest downside I’ve discovered so far is the lack of coverage on British television but that’s not a huge surprise when it comes to sport. And if the above reasons weren’t enough? Wimbledon apparently employed a resident poet this year. Which other sport can say that?

A tale of my sporting loyalties, and other such rambles

With just two weeks to go until the World Cup kicks off, I could be forgiven for admitting that not a great deal has crossed my mind in the last couple of weeks that isn’t sport-related. However it’s surprised me to learn that it’s not ALL football-related. The build-up to Wimbledon for me, at least, has started early this year, and I find myself strangely drawn to the French Open.

So what's happened so far on the Parisienne clay then? Well Nadal is looking devastating, in more ways than one (did I say that out loud?!). I can't see anyone standing in his way this year, knee permitting. Which is going to cause something of a moral dilemma for me in the next round as it's looking like he'll face Hewitt. And not only have I always been a big fan of the Aussie, but I always support the underdog. Will my Rafa-naticism hold out? Or will my resolve crumble and the guts or glory instinct take over, compelling me to sing ‘let’s go Lleyton, let’s go’ at the top of my voice, along with the hoardes of mouthy Aussies that will doubtless congregate at Court Phillippe Chatrier for the match? Watch this space.

Murray's been a bit all over the place so far, although he seems to be settling down now. I don’t know why I mention him really, I am still physically incapable of giving even the teeniest tiniest hamster crap about him, however ‘unpatriotic’ that might make me (yes, let’s ask him who’s he’s supporting in the World Cup THIS time and see if he manages to piss off practically his entire fanbase AGAIN). Also, I saw something yesterday I don't think I will ever emotionally recover from, and as such I think anyone with even a passing interest in tennis needs to see it so I'm not alone. It's only a minute long (it's more than enough, really):

http://www.atpworldtour.com/Tennis/Media/Videos/2010/05/Roland-Garros-2010-Karaoke-Murray.aspx]http://www.atpworldtour.c...10-Karaoke-Murray.aspx

The less said about that the better.

So, tennis anyone? Just me for now then! I'm sure it'll be more of a talking point in a month or so when the white-clad ones take to the manicured lawns at the All England Club. In the meantime I am revving up my England-fuelled emotional torture device and it should be ready to go by the time we take to the field for the first time in Rustenburg on 12th June. I’m sure by that point we’ll already have lost at least two key players to metatarsal injuries, inflicted by aggrieved WAGs most likely. Respective tears for respective pints at the ready, everyone? Good.

Until then, I’ll be drinking to the finale of Lost tonight (yes, I know I’m late, but I’m a traditionalist. Plus I’ve been on holiday and have only just caught up) and the ever-fabulous Eurovision Song Contest tomorrow. Don’t even pretend you aren’t going to ‘have it on in the background’. Come on Slovenia! I can’t cheer you in the World Cup but I bloody can in this. And anything has to be better than that pathetic wet tissue of a British entry.

Right. Have a good weekend, everyone!

EDIT: I've just discovered that Slovenia aren't even in the arsing song contest. It's got to be between Armenia and Moldova, right? Right...?!

The Black Procession Tour – Newcastle Academy 2, 26th February 2010

A lack of hair, more than compensated for by a collection of circle pits…

It was a cold, rainy night in February. I was waiting, coatless, outside an Academy. And yet I WASN’T seeing Lamb of God. Say what?

Instead, The Black Procession tour, which has been weaving its way up and down the country for the last week or so, comprising some big, fat, no-nonsense metal for all to partake of. Well, alright then, I suppose I’ll give it a go.

First on the bill, Glaswegian deathcore crew Man Must Die, the replacement band for All Shall Perish who had unfortunately pulled out of the tour some time ago. They were worth turning up early for, despite their repeated insistence on demanding a ‘circle pit’ which, in a Scottish accent, just made me think of Lorraine Kelly trying to organise a knitting club on GMTV. The pit that stuttered into existence was quite appropriate then, featuring about three 15-year-olds tripping over each other and a big bald bloke who eventually cleared the space for a spot of Greco-roman wrestling. I shit you not. From a musical standpoint, closing track ‘Kill It, Skin It, Wear It’ is quite catchy really and I think these chaps are more than capable of holding their own at this level.

Next up were Bleeding Through. The crowd had swelled by this point and they definitely created some atmosphere. Those of you who know me, or have ever read my blog, know that I’m really only comfortable with a metal band when they’re good and hairy. In fact, my enjoyment of a band is probably directly correlated with their relative hairiness. Your hairs are your aerials, after all. It came as no surprise, then, that I really didn’t connect with this band, as they seemed to be suffering from a nasty strain of collective baldness, well, aside from keyboard player Maria Peterson, allegedly one of the hottest (read: only) women in metal, yet clearly not really essential to the musical proceedings, other than to lend some impressive round-the-clock headbanging with the only hair on the stage.

I also feel it is my duty to point out that the ‘circle’ pit they created was not geometrically sound at all; it was more of an elliptical shape, really. Most irregular. It was large, though. It struck me at that moment, that circle pits really must be the most masculine way for a large group of blokes to skip around in a circular formation together.

To be fair to Bleeding Through, they certainly got people going, but I found the music generic and they did little to impress me in all honesty.

Hatebreed on the other hand, are severely follicly challenged, but they seem to be the exception that proves the rule (whatever that actually means). They whip the crowd up a notch immediately, everyone shouting along with their catchy brand of metallic hardcore (I refuse to call it metalcore as I don’t think it actually IS, really). They tear through songs from a variety of albums, have some good banter with the crowd despite verging on overly cheesy Americanisms at times (‘who has more heart than you? No-one!’) and are thoroughly entertaining, particularly as I can’t shake the feeling of lead singer Jamey Jasta reminding me of Fred Durst, which lends things a slight comedy over-tone, for me at least.

It’s clear from Machine Head’s soundcheck that the warnings I’ve had from previous attendees on this tour are going to be borne out here tonight too – it’s going to be LOUD. Thankfully I’ve brought along some earplugs and they are rammed into my ears by the time the headline act take the stage, yet it still sounds like a regular gig to me – I think this means, it’s LOUD. My vibrating sternum was testament to this, in the absence of aching eardrums.

As promised, the band give us a sort of ‘greatest hits’ set, inasmuch as they pick highlights from each of their six studio albums, as well as debuting old tracks – ‘Spine’ from The More Things Change gets its first airing EVER in the UK, and ‘Blood For Blood’ from Burn My Eyes its first in 8 years. This pleases me as I’m an old-school Machine Head fan, and hearing six tracks in total from across their first two albums is pretty good going. Also, they are three-quarters hairy, which makes me feel at home again. Highlights for me include ‘Old’ and ‘Bulldozer’ as well as the rare tracks, and of course the crushing crescendo of final song ‘Davidian’, which never fails to grab every metal fan in the room by the throat and squeeze.

Gig over, I was smugly aware that I was probably the only person in the place that had retained some form of hearing. For my first gig since the Lamb of God tour, it was a good one. It kicked the crusty Wrath-infested cobwebs away and reminded me that life goes on – there are many more gigs to be had, many more bands to bang my head to. Although I have to say it did feel strange not hearing ‘Richmond motherfucking Virginia’ at the beginning or ‘last chance to dance’ at the end (Robb Flynn almost said it… but not quite). I did sort of feel like I was being unfaithful. But Lamb of God can rest easy. I may have been with Machine Head… but I was thinking of them the whole time.